


Sweetness

by Liviapenn



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-28
Updated: 1999-10-28
Packaged: 2018-11-11 03:40:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11140335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liviapenn/pseuds/Liviapenn
Summary: Just another night in Chicago. Ray can't sleep.





	Sweetness

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).
    
    
    Sweetness
    by Livia
    10/11/99
    
    _For Elisabeth, just because._
    
    Insomnia is worse hell for an impatient man. The hours before 
    dawn stretch out like years. Some have names, the midnight and 
    the witching and the wee hours. Some don't. Those are the ones 
    that truly suck. Though Ray Kowalski knows better, the silence 
    in his bedroom is so pervasive, so palpable, it seems that 
    everyone in the city must be asleep and dreaming. And if they 
    are awake... at least they're not alone.
    
    Ray is alone, and his bed is too big. The night is like an 
    empty room and the hours are like the streets in dreams that 
    fold and twist and turn back on themselves. There are no maps 
    to tell you how to get through these hours, which is why, not 
    knowing why, Ray rolls out of bed. 
    
    Usually when he can't sleep and there's no one to get lost in 
    bed with, Ray fills the hours by dancing. All good girls and 
    boys may be asleep, but somewhere in the city there's always a 
    beat for bad boys and girls to get down to. Mostly he dances alone, though,
    at home. Company may not be as good, but the music's sure as hell better.
    
    Ray kicks the rug back. CD cases click sharply against each other. Dancing
    to music you love is a little bit like dancing _with_ someone you
    love, but tonight somehow that's just not doing it for Ray. Tucking his
    sleep-worn T-shirt into the waist of yesterday's jeans, he gets the hell
    out.
    
    Sliding into the front seat of the sable GTO, Ray does mean to 
    go dancing. But halfway to somewhere he looks down, fooling with the
    radio, trying to find something that doesn't bite, and on public radio
    some torch singer that sounds like Ella Fitzgerald, all dreams and teasing,
    is crooning "Sugar Blues." One of the classics.
    
    _you can say what you choose
    but i'm all confused
    i've got the sweet sweet sugar blues_
    
    The streets twist and fold and bend. Ray taps his hands on the 
    steering wheel, lets the song carry him, and the next clear 
    thing, he's swinging into an empty parking spot in front of the 
    Consulate. The GTO's engine mutters as it idles. 
    
    _more sugar
    i've got the sugar blues_
    
    Ray starts in his seat, and turns the car off. The radio dies. 
    
    The Consulate is dark but Ray thinks he saw light behind the 
    windowshade in Fraser's office. The night outside the GTO is 
    bitter cold. There hasn't been snow yet this winter but it's 
    there, in the air. It's waiting. Ray is up to the door, hand 
    fisted to knock before he realizes he's got no good reason to 
    roust Fraser out of bed-- or whatever-- in the middle of the 
    night. The door swings open before he can think of one, or 
    decide not to knock. 
    
    Fraser's wearing dark jeans, dark deep blue the way denim only 
    is when it's new, and a deep brown sweater with the sleeves 
    shoved up above his elbows. He pushes a wayward half-curl 
    of hair off his forehead, and blinks curiously at Ray, who 
    suddenly feels awake, more awake than he's felt in days. He 
    doesn't analyze the way his spirit suddenly lifts; it's pure 
    reflex, almost Pavlovian. He goes with it.
    
    Funny how Fraser doesn't even look tired, Ray thinks with the 
    internal freewheeling whimsy of a sleepless brain. The Mountie's eyes
    are lucid, bright, no bags underneath them, not even those 
    little lines that show when he's worried or determined. 
    
    "Hey, Frase. What the hell ya doin' awake this time of night?" 
    Ray slaps Fraser's shoulder, stepping over the threshhold. Home 
    and the Canadian Consulate-- the two places that, when you go 
    there, they gotta take you in. A rush has started at the soles 
    of his feet, shooting up to the roots of his hair with a tingle 
    like the best sugar rush ever. His heart jitters, hurts a little, like
    he's had a couple too many coffees. Still, it's the best thing Ray's
    felt all day and all this long night. He doesn't resist it; the thought
    never even occurs to him. It's too good. 
    
    "I could ask you the same question," Fraser replies, but there's a smile
    in his voice, cordial and welcoming. Ray walks further in. There's wavering
    light spilling from Fraser's doorway, like he's got an oil lamp in there,
    something with a flame. He turns back to watch Fraser lock up, and notices
    that the Mountie is barefoot. 
    Something low in his gut does that same jittery thing as his heart. 
    
    "No you couldn't-- you wouldn't say 'hell.'" he responds. 
    Suddenly everything inside him is curled in a tight coil, 
    waiting. "An' besides that, it wouldn't do ya no good, as 
    I wouldn't have an answer."
    
    Fraser raises an eyebrow and turns, coming closer. Abruptly the 
    hall seems all too dark. Half-blind as a beetle already, to Ray 
    this dim vaulted space seems to lack coherence at the convergence of
    ceiling, wall and floor. Where corners ought to be are mere 
    puddled shadows, black as ink. Fraser's bare feet make no sound 
    on the Consulate's lush carpets as he comes closer. "Oh?"
    
    "Nope. Not a clue." Ray informs him. He parks himself against the desk
    at the foot of the stairs. Crossing his ankles, he jams his hands into
    his pockets and shrugs. "Just couldn't sleep."
    
    "Insomnia?" 
    
    "Maybe." Insomnia. The other sugar blues, the ones Ella forgot 
    to tell you about. Yeah, it's gotta be the insomnia, thinks Ray. He's
    noticing things that have been there, maybe, in the daytime; he just
    wouldn't have noticed before with other people around, 
    other things going on, a case or a quest to hold his attention. 
    The only question now is: what's he gonna do about it.
    
    One of the sleeves of Fraser's sweater is slipping down over 
    his elbow. He pushes it back up, adjusting it with the same 
    care he uses to get his Stetson set just right. "Perhaps you 
    should consider decreasing your caffeine and refined sugar intake." 
    
    "Perhaps I didn't come here to get a dietician's advice." Ray 
    holds up his hand in warning. This isn't the time for small-
    talk, Canadian-style or otherwise. "Fraser--" He closes his 
    eyes for a long couple of seconds. He's never been a coward. 
    Been a liar, a fake, but never a coward. "Tell me somethin'."
     
    Fraser tilts his head slightly. "Yes?"
    
    "I can't sleep, and..." the night is so fucking _long_. Ray takes
    a breath. "Sometimes it seems like no one ever gets 
    anywhere-- like _I_ ain't gettin' nowhere. I mean, day in, day out,
    we move, we go, we punch the clock, we're always movin', 
    but... maybe that just distracts us, you know?" He scowls down 
    at his boots. "Maybe it just keeps us from seein' things." 
    
    Fraser blinks, silent for a moment, and then he moves, turning 
    to lean against the desk, next to Ray. He purses his lips 
    slightly, glancing sideways. "Such as?" 
    
    "Don't know." Ray exhales. "I mean, we move. But maybe we're 
    never gettin' anywhere." Like dancing. "Like that." He sighs, 
    offering Fraser a wry, apologetic smile. "Middle of the night,
    you come up with this crazy stuff... I don't know."
    
    Fraser nods and his eyes go a little distant. Ray can't 
    help but smile a little at the sight; it never fails. Sure, 
    what the Mountie comes up with may be 'did I ever tell you 
    about my Dad and the three-legged elk,' but what the hell. 
    Effort counts with Ray.
    
    When Fraser finally looks up, lips already slightly parted to 
    dispense some of that northern wisdom, he is obviously nonplussed by
    Ray's amusement. Ray raises his eyebrows, waiting, and sure 
    enough Fraser doesn't disappoint. "Zeno of Elea was a Greek 
    mathematician in the 5th century B.C., a student of Parmenides." Fraser
    says. "He was mainly known for his paradoxes of endlessness." 
    
    "Endlessness." Ray echoes. 	
    
    Fraser nods. "For example: when you got in your car to drive to 
    the Consulate tonight, you first had to get halfway. Then you 
    had to travel half the remaining distance, then half the distance that
    still remained. One can divide space an infinite number of 
    times, which Zeno took as proof that motion is illusion." 
    
    "No one ever gets anywhere." Ray summarizes. Simple, but it 
    makes sense. Divide distance enough and you're barely moving, 
    all effort and energy expended in order to batter through 
    smaller and smaller half-slices of space. It's a depressing
    image.
    
    "It's a function of logic." Fraser lifts one shoulder, drops 
    it precisely; it's far too neat a movement to be called a 
    shrug. 
    
    "Like the whatsit, the... theory. Theorem. Godel's theorem." Ray chafes
    his hands together, like he always does when he remembers the Henry Allen.
    He'd never been so cold. 
    
    "Yes." Fraser opens his mouth as if to speak, closes it. Tries 
    again. "I thought it might perhaps be comforting to know 
    that... Well."
    
    "Others, I am not the first," mutters Ray just to fill the 
    space. It's the first line of some poem-- something from 
    fifteen years ago, Mrs. Dalton's English class-- and of course 
    he's forgotten every other line not to mention who wrote it but 
    the rhythm, the pulse of it stuck in his head. Good beat, you 
    can dance to it. 
    
    Fraser glances at him, a little startled. "Yes."
    
    "Yeah." Ray mutters. Others-I-am-not-the-first, have... done 
    something. Felt something. Some fucking thing. "Like us."
    
    "Pardon?" Fraser looks up, and Ray puts his weight on his feet 
    again, pushing himself forward and away from the desk. He 
    feels more than a little off-balance. 
    
    "It's like us." he insists, and strikes off down the hallway, 
    hands flailing in the darkness, boots scuffing on carpet.
    "Partners is halfway, friends is halfway again." He reaches 
    the door and wheels back. He feels like he's in the ring for 
    some reason. "Right now, right here is another halfway, 
    Fraser," and his momentum carries him right into Fraser's 
    space, and the Mountie stares up at him, and then his eyes 
    dart away. 
    
    "You can't guess why I'm here?" Ray says, his shoulders 
    hunched forward, his neck thrust out. "You got no idea?" 
    
    Fraser's mouth is open, his eyes are wide. It's not a full-
    blown gape but it's close. 
    
    Ray swallows hard, and reaches up, bringing his hand close to 
    Fraser's face. He's near but not touching; he can only go halfway. Zeno
    maybe didn't mean his paradox like this, but you can only 
    ever go halfway. No matter how much you love someone you can't 
    make up for their lack. It doesn't seem like it should be true, 
    but there it is. The Stella paradox, maybe. 
    
    Ray's hand hangs halfway in space, and Fraser stares. And then, 
    just when he's beginning to think that maybe this was a 
    mistake, just like the last time he raised his hand to Fraser 
    but maybe worse-- (you fucking idiot Stanley Ray _worse_ ) 
    Fraser's head turns, slowly. His eyes are closed as he angles 
    his face into Ray's touch. His face is cool, then warm. 
    
    Slowly, Ray draws the back of one finger over Fraser's cheek. 
    It's only the lightest touch, a test, but Fraser's reaction is 
    wild. A small, hoarse noise escapes his throat, and he chokes 
    the rest down, shoulders tensing, shuddering. What a trip; 
    he's getting more of a rise out of Fraser with this than the 
    time he lost it, socked him. Ray wasn't thinking too clearly 
    back then but he remembers wanting something, so desperately. 
    Connection. The wrong kind, or maybe just the wrong way. 
    
    This is better. Shit scary but better. Fraser's eyes are 
    closed. Ray's heart is jackhammering, and he wants to close 
    his eyes too, wants it bad, wants--
    
    They're kissing.
    
    His hands are holding Fraser's face, keeping their mouths 
    matched as their bodies jerk, drawn almost magnetically to 
    each other. Fraser's mouth is warm and his grip is iron, one 
    hand on the small of Ray's back drawing him so close he can
    hardly breathe right. The Mountie is hard, his body muscled 
    beneath that deceptively soft-looking sweater, and he pushes 
    Ray back against the desk hard and steps between his legs and 
    oh yeah, he's hard where it counts, too. 
    
    Fraser's other hand slides down to grab his ass. Ray gasps and 
    Fraser swallows the gasp. His fingers are splayed as if to 
    touch as much of Ray as he can, and each applies bruising 
    pressure. 
    
    The Mountie's kisses are hungry, plundering-- Ray usually kisses like
    he dances, careful at first, getting-to-know-you type kisses that set
    some kind of a rhythm-- now it's all he can do to breathe, burn, kiss,
    hot, breathe and then suddenly it's over. Fraser's two steps away and
    their only point of contact is his outstretched fingers, trembling against
    Ray's shoulder, like that's the only thing keeping him from falling back
    into the fire.
    
    "Uh." Ray gasps, getting back a few of those missing breaths. 
    He checks in with his brain briefly. Worth getting out of bed 
    for? Worth losing sleep over? Worth doing again? Yes, yes, and 
    oh hell yes. He leans back against the desk, shaking a little.
    
    Fraser drops his head and shakes it like he has water in his 
    ears. "Ray-- I--"
    
    Ray reaches up and puts three fingers over the Mountie's 
    mouth. He chews at his own lower lip consideringly. Words have 
    been, he knows, and words will be again. This is not the time, 
    though. Not now. 
    
    He pulls his hand away a little, holds it palm up. Not 
    reaching for anything this time, just showing Fraser that it's 
    there. Fraser studies his face for a long moment and Ray looks 
    down, away from that sudden scrutiny. Fraser already knows 
    everything about him he'll ever need to know. He just watches 
    as Fraser's hand lifts, curls into his. 
    
    He holds Fraser's hand. This touch, this grip is familiar, to 
    both of them. It settles Ray a little, and when he looks up into Fraser's
    eyes he sees it's settled something for the Mountie as 
    well. 
    
    Carefully, slowly, Fraser leans close and kisses him, chaste 
    and gentle. Ray's already abused lips tingle. It's nice. It's 
    sweet, is what it is. Ray smiles against Fraser's mouth, can't 
    help it. Before tonight, what with being a caffiene fiend and 
    hooked on sugar, he had addictions enough for one man. Looks 
    he's just going to have to deal with being a Fraser junkie, 
    too. 
    
    "Couldn't sleep," Ray murmurs. Some rooms, he's realizing, are 
    not empty. Only unexplored. "There was this song on the radio. 
    And... we were already halfway there."
    
    "Yes." Fraser's fingers spider curiously across Ray's temple, 
    through his hair. "I suppose we were."
    
    Ray leans in for another of those nice slow kisses. God, the 
    Mountie's mouth is sweet. Well? So what's another addiction? Coffee and
    sugar may be bad for Ray, but they haven't been so bad _to_ him.
    After all, so what if they keep him up at night? 
    
    "Ray," Fraser gasps. 
    
    There's lots of things to do at night. Oh, yeah. Ray smiles, 
    licks at Fraser's earlobe, thinking of all those empty hours, 
    those bitter nights dark as black coffee, just waiting for 
    some sugar. 
    
    In fact,
    
    "Ray. _Ray_ --"
    
    maybe, just maybe... the night may not be long enough.
    
    [end]
    
    
    
    * * *
    
    
    
    _Author's note: 'Sweetness' is my first 
    DS story that's anywhere near full length, 
    so I'd really appreciate feedback at_ livia001@hotmail.com. _Constructive criticism is welcomed, as are pats on the 
    head and scritches behind the ears._
    
    visit livia's library at: 
    http://internettrash.com/users/livia/
    
    


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